life throwing a few lemons at me
My dear, it's June, what the hell happened to you?
A lot, my dear. And it's not even December.
Top of mind is that most recently, i lost a friend/org mate to cancer. I have been disgusted with this condition since M had it this year and now, I abhor it even more when someone I know died from it.
It does leave me with a dull and spaced out time thinking about how someone you shared experiences with would just be gone in just a matter of months.
I've had two close friends who had gone before her but Ate Lolay's death was quite moving for me. I think it was the manner of how I was served of their notice that made it bearable. The first two friends came quickly, both from a phone call informing me that they died. It came as a shock but I was spared from the actual experience of death in itself. But with Ate Lolay, I was an audience to her day by day departing. And her's was an unpleasant, albeit poignant performance of how one's story is about to end.
It was on the last pages of her book and everyone was invited to read that part. I was a witness to how hard she had to breath thru the respirator, to how her mother had this dreadful look as her blood pressure dropped to alarming levels, how silent everyone was in the room and how friends tried not to cry upon seeing our boisterous Ate Lolay tamed down to the sound of small beeps from the machine. It was surreal and real at the same time. I was never schooled on how to be in a room when everyone is waiting for you to go yet still aiming for a miracle, I guess, no one has.
Me and my friend Marian walked in the suite, half-expecting to have some bitchy chit chat with Ate Lolay but as we walked inside, we were greeted with silence. She was bald and in her 'liposuctioned' body (as what she would have claimed it) She had all the these hospital things strapped onto her body and she couldn't talk. She had a respirator on with her mouth open as if air evaded her. I felt like I was silently attacked with her physical state because I never imagined she would look this way. That image of her in that bed was an assault to the life i knew of her.
I couldn't move my feet towards her. I wanted some push but Marian was suddenly nowhere behind me. Her mother approached and said something unexpected, "Come close, hold her hand and whisper a prayer to Lolay. Pray for her"
This visit wasn't supposed to be this dramatic. I was there for some chika but I did what mother wanted me to do. And after 5 minutes of internally talking and staring at her, I couldn't take it. I had to go out and get some air, some space or whatever outside has to offer. I asked the nurses passing by where the restroom was but there was none on the floor. So I had to take myself to the stairs and cried to just let it out. I may not be that close to her but it was painful to see her in that way. I couldn't imagine what her parents would have been going through.
I gathered my wits and as I looked up, I saw the St. Lukes' hospital motto--- We love Life. or something like it. Most awkward thing to see after everything that I saw and felt. But yes, I have to agree, we do love life but I think we hardly show it. I would have loved to see a sign like that on some tree. I don't know if it's a comforting thought to see it in a hospital where life could be saved and where life could leave. Arguably, it's a two faced wolf, that sign, and as they say, we have to feed only one of it to make it through.
A lot, my dear. And it's not even December.
Top of mind is that most recently, i lost a friend/org mate to cancer. I have been disgusted with this condition since M had it this year and now, I abhor it even more when someone I know died from it.
It does leave me with a dull and spaced out time thinking about how someone you shared experiences with would just be gone in just a matter of months.
I've had two close friends who had gone before her but Ate Lolay's death was quite moving for me. I think it was the manner of how I was served of their notice that made it bearable. The first two friends came quickly, both from a phone call informing me that they died. It came as a shock but I was spared from the actual experience of death in itself. But with Ate Lolay, I was an audience to her day by day departing. And her's was an unpleasant, albeit poignant performance of how one's story is about to end.
It was on the last pages of her book and everyone was invited to read that part. I was a witness to how hard she had to breath thru the respirator, to how her mother had this dreadful look as her blood pressure dropped to alarming levels, how silent everyone was in the room and how friends tried not to cry upon seeing our boisterous Ate Lolay tamed down to the sound of small beeps from the machine. It was surreal and real at the same time. I was never schooled on how to be in a room when everyone is waiting for you to go yet still aiming for a miracle, I guess, no one has.
Me and my friend Marian walked in the suite, half-expecting to have some bitchy chit chat with Ate Lolay but as we walked inside, we were greeted with silence. She was bald and in her 'liposuctioned' body (as what she would have claimed it) She had all the these hospital things strapped onto her body and she couldn't talk. She had a respirator on with her mouth open as if air evaded her. I felt like I was silently attacked with her physical state because I never imagined she would look this way. That image of her in that bed was an assault to the life i knew of her.
I couldn't move my feet towards her. I wanted some push but Marian was suddenly nowhere behind me. Her mother approached and said something unexpected, "Come close, hold her hand and whisper a prayer to Lolay. Pray for her"
This visit wasn't supposed to be this dramatic. I was there for some chika but I did what mother wanted me to do. And after 5 minutes of internally talking and staring at her, I couldn't take it. I had to go out and get some air, some space or whatever outside has to offer. I asked the nurses passing by where the restroom was but there was none on the floor. So I had to take myself to the stairs and cried to just let it out. I may not be that close to her but it was painful to see her in that way. I couldn't imagine what her parents would have been going through.
I gathered my wits and as I looked up, I saw the St. Lukes' hospital motto--- We love Life. or something like it. Most awkward thing to see after everything that I saw and felt. But yes, I have to agree, we do love life but I think we hardly show it. I would have loved to see a sign like that on some tree. I don't know if it's a comforting thought to see it in a hospital where life could be saved and where life could leave. Arguably, it's a two faced wolf, that sign, and as they say, we have to feed only one of it to make it through.
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